Giving Thanks
by Ash10
Summary: Part Two Now Up! What will the squad find in the old stone house previously visited by Caje and the wounded Saunders? Please R and R and thanks! Happy Thanksgiving to all!
1. Chapter 1

I originally wrote and posted this story to my website back in 1999, but figured today might be a good day to put it up here, just in case there's a "Combat!" fan who hasn't yet read it! Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Giving Thanks

Trying to give Saunders something else to occupy his mind, Caje talked as he worked, rambling on about whatever came into his head. Then, almost as an afterthought, almost like it surprised even him, he added, "Sarge, the day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving!"

Fleetingly, the memories of Thanksgivings past flooded over Saunders - the feelings of home, love, friendship, hope - fleeting - gone.

That had been yesterday, moments after the Company had been caught in a withering crossfire. The squads had broken apart. The situation quickly became every man for himself; get out, survive! The din had been deafening, the screams terrifying.

Today, Saunders lay on his back gazing upward at the late November sky. Snow threatened to fall; the scent of it clean in the cold air. Dark clouds ambled by, dragging great gray tails resembling trailing soot which eventually reached the ground not as snow, but wet sleet. It fell upon the unprotected soldier, adding to his misery.

Caje had been gone for only a couple hours, but to Saunders it seemed time stood still. One hundred twenty minutes, give or take, felt like days. In his present state of near immobility, the sergeant had little to do but give in to the pain that washed over him at very regular intervals, that and the cold, or occupy his mind with other things. Being the man he was, not one to give in to anything without a fight, Saunders thought.

He pondered the fact that time was creeping by, snail-like or standing still altogether. Why was it when you were doing something that brought you great pleasure, or sublime peace, the minutes flew past? Yet, when you were waiting, as he was now in the cold, wet dull of a late November day, trying your damnedest to keep pain and despair at bay, time stood stock still? Why? For the life of him, Saunders could figure out no answer. If only he could sleep, time would at least pass and he would be unaware of how slowly it dragged along. But he couldn't sleep. He was afraid. In the cold he might not wake, and then time would hold no value whatsoever, for him.

The other thought that kept intruding into the young sergeant's mind was not so much a thought as another question; what did he have this year, this day, this very moment to be thankful for? Back home in Illinois, Thanksgiving had been his favorite holiday, enjoyed more even than Christmas. What was there to be thankful for now? What indeed! He closed his eyes and drifted.

Waiting the endless hours for Caje to return, Saunders became aware of the smell. It verged on nauseating, sort of a rotten smell. Not as bad as the time they'd found a dead mouse behind the canned goods in Grandma's pantry. The tiny rodent had fallen into a narrow-necked bottle and had been unable to climb back up again and escape. Not that bad, but close to the time Mother's little spaniel had dragged a half devoured chicken carcass she'd found in the neighbor's garbage merrily, and without remorse, down the hallway and through the kitchen before Chip could wrench the stinking thing from between her strong jaws and dispose of it. Yes, very nearly that bad. To his horror, Saunders realized the smell was coming from him!

He'd been wounded nearly thirty-six hours earlier, a bullet through the shoulder. Blood had poured from him, soaking his wool shirt and the t-shirt beneath before Caje had gotten the bleeding stopped, or nearly so, through direct pressure and sheer force of will. The wound continued to seep. His shirts stayed damp. The odor produced by the old blood came close to gagging him. Just one more tribulation he had to try his best to ignore.

Near dusk, Caje returned, out of breath, cheeks colored from the cold and his exertion, but smiling as he knelt at the sergeant's side."Had to wait forever for a kraut patrol to leave the area before I could get back, Sarge. Sorry it took me so long." As Caje spoke, he checked Saunders' bandages and pulled the jacket closer around the wounded non-com.

"Found a house, about two miles from here - big, stone, looks like a small castle or somethin'. Can't imagine why it wasn't marked on the map. Anyway, there was smoke comin' from the chimney. I waited to be sure it was clear, then made it to the door." The Cajun paused to pull a cigarette out of his jacket. Lighting it, he took a drag and offered it to Saunders, who took a couple quick puffs, refusing more. Caje inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out and away from the sergeant. "Haven't had a smoke all day. Krauts were too close." Satisfaction suffused his drawn features.

"A lady answered," he continued. "I told her about you. She looked plenty scared, but said it was okay to bring you there. So, come on, Sarge, let's go before it gets too dark."

Caje hauled Saunders to his feet. The sudden change of position and the blood draining from his head made Saunders very nearly pass out. He groaned and slumped against the slender scout whose slim build belied a wiry strength. Slinging his rifle and Saunders' Thompson, Caje supported the sergeant with an arm around his waist. Two miles was going to be a rough go.

By the time the GIs made it to the stone house, Caje had been carrying Saunders over his shoulder for the better part of the last half mile. His slender body trembled with fatigue and he was afraid - afraid Saunders was dead. He couldn't stop to check. If he put the sergeant down, he knew he'd never be able to pick him up again.

Caje knocked on the heavy oak door, timidly at first, then, when there was no response, pounding with his fist. Long moments passed. Sweat ran down under Caje's helmet to dampen the neck of his shirt, the sweat of fear, of anxiety. Something wasn't right. Even though the windows were shuttered, faint light crept out from beneath the thick door. Someone was home. Someone would answer.

Finally, the door opened, a hair, then a crack, then enough for a woman to peer out. "Go away!" Her whisper was urgent, her voice quaking. "You must leave now!" Her gaze darted from Caje to the body slung over his shoulder and back again.

"You said I could bring him here." Caje's voice automatically muted in response to her whisper, but he was becoming frantic. "You said you'd help him!" His steady gaze held hers; he wouldn't allow her to look away, to escape.

She hesitated, but before she could respond, Caje pushed the door in and the woman stepped back out of the way. There was no furniture in the spacious room, but a fire burned in the huge fireplace at its center. Several blankets were laid out on the floor before it. As gently as possible, Caje laid Saunders on the blankets. Blessedly, the sergeant was still breathing.

The woman appeared suddenly, seeming ready to help now, a bowl of steaming water and some toweling in hand. Before any help could be rendered, a bellow broke the silence and caused Caje to reach for the Thompson lying by his knee. He brought the weapon up into his arms.

A huge, bull of a man lumbered toward the small group from a far doorway. In his hands he held a shotgun of equally massive proportions, long-barreled and large-bored. "Get out of here! Go now! We don't want you here!" The giant roared. "GET OUT!"

Caje's finger tightened on the Thompson's trigger. Was it worth Saunders' life to take this man's? His finger continued to apply pressure. Before he had a chance to make that split second decision, a child appeared in the doorway behind and to the left of the big man. Caje moved his finger off the trigger. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, he slung the Thompson. Picking up the Garand, he slung it as well.

The woman made no sound; clearly she was cowed by this huge man, her husband, cowed and submissive. She remained kneeling and silent, not even acknowledging the little girl who continued to stand in the doorway as silent as she.

Soundlessly, the Cajun gathered the semi-conscious Saunders from the blankets and half carrying, half dragging him, left the way they'd come, with nothing to show for a two mile forced march except bitter disappointment and utter exhaustion.

----

Full morning found the two men in a shelter provided by a small cave dug back into a hillside. The walls were shored up by hundreds of flat rocks, while the low doorway consisted of a stone-reinforced arch. It was a shelter for sheep, but the animals were gone now, long ago slaughtered for food by the farmer, the enemy and the allies. It was a decent structure though, solid and lined with straw, fairly overgrown on the outside. A minor miracle had allowed the bleary-eyed, exhausted Caje to stumble upon it in the pale pink light of the new day. He'd had to crawl in first, dragging Saunders in after. An hour's sleep and Caje was off again. Sheep meant shepherd, shepherd meant farm, and farm meant food even if it had to be 'confiscated.'

Saunders woke in near darkness, but no, it wasn't totally dark; meager light seeped in through a small portal. His chest was wrapped in clean, rough bandaging, his stinking shirts having been cut away at some point between now and when...yesterday? All he smelled now was hay and it was sweet and pleasant.

Vaguely, he remembered a stone house, the shouting, and being turned out into the cold. He remembered Caje mostly carrying him though the endless night, the two of them like homeless gypsies.

A sudden rustling of hay and Saunders realized he wasn't alone in the shelter - Caje was there. The scout seemed leaner than ever, with dark shadows beneath light brown eyes and cheeks deeply hollowed by hunger and lack of sleep. But still there was a smile on the dry, cracked lips.

In one hand Caje held a mess cup. Saunders discovered it contained goat's milk - fresh if not still warm. Carefully, the scout helped Saunders to drink. "Have it all, Sarge. Go on. I drank my fill already." Saunders did as requested and for the first time in several days he had more in his stomach than water and memories.

Urging Saunders to finish every drop, Caje grinned in satisfaction. "There's plenty more where this came from, Sarge and I found a few things we could use outta that barn, too - a blanket, some clean sacks for bandaging, and if I play my cards right, an egg or two for dinner. Might not be such a bad Thanksgiving after all!"

"Today?'' Saunders questioned.

Caje nodded. "Today."

Saunders closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander back to when Caje had first reminded him that Thanksgiving was coming. Then, he questioned what he had to feel thankful for. Old memories had flooded back and the future had seemed non-existent, but that was then. What did he, Sergeant Chip Saunders, have to give thanks for now, today? He fingered the clean sacking which bandaged his wound and let his hand rest against the scratchy warmth of the wool blanket that covered him. He looked up at Caje, worn and tired, yet determined and tireless in his efforts. What indeed!


	2. Chapter 2

"Giving Thanks"

Part 2

Saunders never thought of Hanley's voice as being melodious. For the most part, he'd only thought of it as being loud.  
But now, laying here, only a scrap of blanket between him and the ground and in a semi-stupor with little to do but listen, Saunders realized how full of music the Lieutenant's voice was. Saunders couldn't quite make out any words, only the deep drone, hardly fluctuating, sort of like the resonant notes of a base cello adding substance and heart to a piece of classical music - Tchaikovsky's perhaps, or Beethoven's. The sound of it lulled the wounded sergeant, and gave him a feeling of peace, something he hadn't felt in days.

Hanley knelt at Saunders' side, questioning Doc. "How's he doing?" while laying a rough hand gently on the sergeant's unbandaged shoulder.

"Okay...he's doing okay, Lieutenant, all things considered. If Caje hadn't of found us when he did...well," Doc hesitated, his gaze shifting from Hanley to Saunders. "He's got a pretty nasty infection in the wound. Caje kept him from bleeding to death, but there wasn't anything he could do about infection." Doc seemed resigned to this turn of events. He had two other wounded men to tend. They were miles from home and help. It was cold and rain or snow threatened. He was doing his best, but it seemed damned little.

Wearily, Doc got to his feet. "I gave the Sarge morphine so he's pretty out of it." It seemed the soft spoken medic had read Hanley's mind. The lieutenant wanted to speak to the sergeant. He needed to talk to him. Saunders was an excellent non-com and took a great deal of pressure off the always overworked lieutenant. Hanley just needed someone to talk to, to discus things with. He also needed reassurance that Saunders was okay, that he'd pull through. He needed that from Saunders himself.

The sergeant heard Doc's voice - not as low as Hanley's or as full of melody, but softer, and then Hanley's rumble. Saunders concentrated, forcing his fuzzy mind to move, to shift past the morphine to the point where he could actually open his eyes. He saw Hanley, sitting on the damp ground close to his pallet, knees drawn up. Sensing he was being watched, Hanley met Saunders' bleary gaze. The sergeant was surprised not just at how bone tired the officer looked, but how defeated. And also how the smallest hint of a now visible grin could change that entire picture. Hanley still looked exhausted - only sleep would cure that, but the defeated look vanished as though Saunders had only imagined it.

"Don't ask," Saunders stopped Hanley's question before it could be offered. His voice was barely a whisper, the words slurred. "I feel like hell."

"I believe 'feel' is the important word in that sentence." Hanley smiled broadly now.

"Caje...where is he? He's okay?"

"Caje is fine, worn to a thin line though. He's getting some sack time. We'll be moving out for home as soon as Doc thinks everyone is stable enough. Murphy and Littlejohn were wounded and we lost Curtis in that last fiasco. I don't have to tell you...it hasn't been good."  
Hanley fumbled in his jacket, searching his pockets in vain for a smoke. He gave up. "I'm gonna see if I can't bum a cigarette off Kirby." He paused a moment, then added, "Good to see you awake, Saunders, but get some rest."

Saunders obliged and fell into a deep fever and morphine induced sleep. When he woke, he was being carried on a make-shift stretcher with the recurrent pain just shy of agonizing. His jaws ached from grinding them together to keep from crying out at each jolt and bump. Doc appeared at his side without being summoned. The medic, somewhere along the line, had developed a sixth sense when it came to the needs of his patients. A sharp quick prick of the needle and the pain faded.

The autumn weather was fickle and perverse and the squad hadn't been on the move for an hour when the lieutenant made the decision to head for cover. Another hour passed in driving cutting sleet before the men made it to the stone house Caje and Saunders had found the day before. Caje warned Hanley about the armed civilian they'd encountered. The lieutenant seemed much less concerned about one armed man than about the welfare of his wounded and exhausted squad.

After ordering a cursory search of the outer buildings and finding them deserted, Hanley sent Kirby, Billy and Coyle up to the house itself. They were to find it deserted as well. Kirby signaled the all clear and the lieutenant and the men moved up and into the shelter.  
The interior was pretty much as Caje and Saunders had left it, devoid of furniture, bare and as cold and damp as a tomb, or so Kirby put it. A withering glare from Hanley shut him up before he could make any further observations.

One of the smaller rooms did have a child's bed in it, a mattress on a frame and some blankets. Doc had the most seriously injured man, Saunders, placed there, closest to the kitchen and whatever facilities were available.

Saunders awoke with a dry mouth and a tormenting thirst and in a place that was unfamiliar. Even the softness of the bed and the warm covers did little to assuage his discomfort. The room was small and dim with the bed taking up the better part of the limited space. The tiny window allowed very little of what light there was into the room. Sleet beat against the lead framed panes and Saunders could hear the muted voices of the squad from somewhere distant. He waited, hoping someone would appear, someone who would offer him water. He waited and his suffering became almost more than he could bear. He closed his eyes, but something in the room made him open them again. Whatever or whoever was there unnerved him. A chill ran from his spine up to his brain. He shuddered, then shivered at what he perceived to be a draft of frigid air. There was no draft; his shivering was caused by his own terror. At the foot of his bed stood a man, huge, as tall as Littlejohn, but twice as broad. In his beefy hands he held a shotgun. The weapon was pointed at Saunders. The man began yelling. The words were in French, but Saunders understood their meaning. It was then he also recognized the voice. This was the same man whose voice he'd heard the night Caje had brought him here; loud, very angry, very threatening. Didn't anyone else hear?

Helpless, Saunders struggled to sit up, to back away, to get away, but he could barely move. Pain arced through him. Past the dryness in his throat and his terror, he screamed. "Caje! Caje! He's here! He's here! CAJE!"

Hanley, drinking a cup of tepid coffee, whirled at the sound. The cup dropped from nerveless fingers.

"Gawd almighty! What the hell?!" Kirby swore, but remained rooted to the spot.

Before the scream could echo one more time through the vacant house, Hanley pulled his .45 from its holster and bolted into Saunders' room.  
The sergeant appeared ghostlike - white faced, sitting half way up in bed, eyes staring at something only he could see, mouth open as if to scream again. Hanley checked the room, the window. He knew no one had run out since they would've passed him.

Holstering the .45, Hanley went to Saunders, picked him up as easily as if the sergeant were a child and carried the man into the main room.  
"Kirby, you and Coyle get in there. Pull the mattress off the bed and bring it in here. Lay it next to Littlejohn."

When Kirby failed to move, but stood starring open mouthed toward the room from which the screams had issued, Hanley raised his voice.  
"Kirby! Move it! Now! You, too, Coyle!"

Kirby snapped out of it and grabbed the red-headed corporal by the sleeve, dragging him reluctantly along. Saunders' screams had badly frightened every man.

Saunders lay in Hanley's arms shivering violently from what? Cold? Fear? His head lolled against the lieutenant's shoulder. When the mattress was in place and Saunders laid back onto the bed, Hanley questioned him.

"Who was there, Sergeant? Who was in the room with you?"

"Where's Caje, Lieutenant? Where's Caje? He'd know, " Saunders whispered. He accepted a long drink of water from a cup Hanley held for him.

"Caje is double checking the outer buildings."

Shuddering, remembering, Saunders attempted to answer the lieutenant's earlier question. "It was a man, a man in the room, the man who wouldn't let us stay here before. He had a shotgun...he would've killed me."

"No, Sarge...he couldn't have." Caje appeared suddenly beside the lieutenant. "He couldn't have because he's dead." In his gloved hands, the Cajun held a long barreled shotgun. He passed it over to the lieutenant. "He's dead, Lieutenant and his wife and daughter, too. Found 'em out in the barn. Two of 'em were covered with hay; the other, the man, I found in a back corner. Too dark to see 'em before." When the scout searched his pockets for a lighter, his hands trembled visibly. Even several deep drags from the Lucky couldn't stop his shakes.

"Lieutenant...those people been dead for days, maybe even a week, Doc said. All three were killed by a shotgun. Probably this one here. Doc says maybe the man killed the woman and child, then himself."

"If they were already dead, Caje, then who...?" Hanley couldn't finish. It didn't add up. Didn't make sense. Hanley didn't believe in ghosts. There had to be an explanation. Had to be. Saunders was so ill with fever he could've easily seen or heard something that was only a figment of his tortured imagination. But what had Caje seen that first night? Who? People who only resembled that dead family? After all, a shotgun would do a great deal of damage. Caje could be mistaken....Yes, probably just a resemblance.

Whatever the explanation, as soon as the storm broke Hanley had the men saddle up and move out. Not one man mentioned the stone house or what may or may not have happened there. The book was closed, the ending never written.

Copyright 11/99 - Susan Balnek-Ballard. All rights reserved.


End file.
